


Starving Souls part 1

by Tiofrean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Disturbing Memories, Forced Drug Use, Kissing, M/M, Memories from War, Mentions of Character Death, Mentions of past drug use, Sharing Syringe, description of torture, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cobble stone road that Sherlock has to walk, to get to John Watson and his previous life. Nothing would be the same, the world has changed. Will John meet Sherlock halfway on his road to hell? Or will he throw his feelings out of the window?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rats

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, fellas.   
> This fic is dark, gloomy and not for the soft-heart people. Or is it? I don't want to write a sugar-coated, sweet as honey fairy tale. If you want some – go watch Disney. 
> 
> Warnings consist of whatever my mind is able to come up with. 
> 
> In particular: smoking, mentions of character death, unwanted kissing, memories from war, blood, injuries, mentions of past tortures, sharing syringe (though not the needle), mentions of past drug use, descriptions of tortures after drug injection (sort of).
> 
> It would be graphic, so if you are trigger-happy or you feel like panicking now, just go back to your previous page. If you want to read – be my guest! 
> 
> Well, I say graphic – it will be graphic in the second part, as this one is a background to what I still have in mind. But the second part is yet to be written, and as I don't have time for this now, you'll have to wait a little (presumably till I'm finished with my school). But still some harder things in this part.
> 
> Pairings: Sherlock/John 
> 
> Post-Richenbach, obviously. This fic is about the cobble stone road that Sherlock has to walk, to get to John Watson and his previous life. Nothing would be the same, the world has changed. Will John meet Sherlock halfway on his road to hell? Or will he throw his feelings out of the window? 
> 
> I don't owe any characters. I just borrow them and fool around, to keep people entertained. Every character belongs to his/her respective owner, mainly Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC. Only the plot is mine, but I make no profit from it, nor I wish to make one. 
> 
> Story written in AmE – sorry again. I'm not a native speaker of English and the one I learn is American. I can write in BrE, but I thought that, since I have to write my BA this year, and I have to do it using AmE, I can as well practice the language a little while writing this. 
> 
> So, enjoy! And don't hesitate to write to me. Constructive critic is always welcomed :)

He was alone. Sitting in a shitty little place he rented to be near Baker Street, looking through dirty, dusted curtains, feeling the smoke fill his lungs. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was smoking again. But that wasn't the only thing that changed in the past year. In fact, it was the only thing that remained quite normal. 

He took another drag and fished his phone out of his trouser pocket. With quick, nimble fingers, that once used to caress his violin with such precision, he typed a text and clicked 'send' hurriedly. God, how he missed his violin! He hoped that Mrs. Hudson hadn't thrown it away after he disappeared. Well, after he died would be a more appropriate term, but he never liked to exaggerate. 

He looked around the place, picking his keys and scarf, putting it on. He hated this place, he really did. It was small, dark and gloomy. The whole apartment was smaller than his living room on the Baker Street. There was a tiny bathroom with only a sink and a toilet, both made from a bad quality porcelain. Both dirty as hell, what he tried to change, but failed miserably. When he was finished with the scarf, red this time, with tiny black threads here and there, he looked around for his jacket. A table, with laptop placed on top, an unmade bed in one of the corners and a chair, which seemed to barely hold itself in one piece. No jacket... Sherlock huffed and crossed the room with two steps, coming beside the bed. He flung the covers aside and found what he was looking for. Of course, he scowled at the lump of brown leather, lying in his sheets, he came back late yesterday and didn't even have the strength to hang his clothes on the chair. He shrugged the jacket on, took the keys and got out of the flat.

It was already dark outside, people were passing by, but no one was interested in him. He lit up another cigarette and started to walk, throwing a glance at the building he had just abandoned. The elevation looked even worse than the insides, and Sherlock was quite happy for it. Nobody would look for him there, he could happily occupy the place for the time being. 

Only he wasn't happy. He wasn't happy at all. He had to completely change his appearance, what resulted in dyed and shortened hair, different clothes, different way of walking, contact lens that changed his eyes' color. What Sherlock regretted the most, concerning the appearance area of his new life was, however, his coat. He left it at St. Bart's morgue and he was pretty sure that he'll never get it back. He heard from one of his homeless people that it was handed to John, just after Sherlock's funeral. The detective was nearly sure that, while John seemed to like his coat, he would tear it to shreds one day. That is, if he hadn't done it already. 

Of course, John. There had always been John. Sherlock cursed, turning right at the nearest crossing. Why did he keep thinking about John? He shouldn't be thinking about him now. Not now, he can think about him later, when all this madness comes to an end. Now he needed to focus, he needed his brain witty and fast. It was useless, though, and Sherlock knew it. Whatever he would do, wherever he would be, he would always think of the army doctor. John waltzed into his life and turned it upside-down. While other people were boring and predictable, John was always a mystery. Sherlock would never know what John would do. Never. And that was exactly why did he like him a little too much.

The detective realized that he loved John quite a long time ago. He couldn't confess this to the man, however, for John had always stated that he was straight. Sherlock didn't want to scary him out, he didn't want John to move out of Baker Street because of his flat mate's feelings toward him. Sherlock was sure that he would survive without his blogger, he had been just fine before the doctor appeared. But, on the other hand, his life had been so boring and lonely, without any friends, without anyone to talk to... So he kept silent, even if it was torturing him. He kept silent and suffered in his mind, waiting patiently for a good moment to say what he felt. But the moment didn't come. And then Sherlock had to die.

It ruined pretty much everything. He had to disappear, leaving John in the dark. For the first two months he stayed away from his former flat, out of everyone's sight. He waited for the situation to quiet down. He used this time to track the assassins that were waiting for his mistake. When he had their identity, localization and a good method picked up to kill every one of them, he started to work. The pattern was always the same: trace, set the trap, catch, try to find out as much as possible, kill. He had two killed, out of three, one choked with his own hands, one killed with a knife. At first it wasn't hard, but then it got complicated. He found out that there were three more men, looking out for him, to track him down in case he was still alive and kill him. Slowly. The detective got to them, too. He had caught two so far, he was tracking down the third one. 

Sherlock walked past a dark alley but stopped, hearing a small, bird-like whistle. He turned back and carefully stepped into the darkness.   
“You took your time” he said in a low voice, straining his eyes to see a dark silhouette. The man in front of him just nodded, still hidden in the dark. He ducked his hand into the pocket of his coat and fished out a small, folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Sherlock and disappeared in the alley. The detective hid the scrap in his own pocket and turned around, heading back to his flat. Another game was on.


	2. Angry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous notes apply.

John stared blankly at the screen of his mobile. He had finished his work and got out of the clinic, with an intention to go back to his flat, stopping at the grocery to do a little shopping. The day was hard, there was a huge accident nearby and they had had a lot to do. And just when he finished his shift and managed to escape from one of the most tiring shifts in his life, he heard his phone beep. He fished it out, thinking that he would not be coming back there, no matter how much Sarah pleaded him to. No. He was fed up with work, he was fed up with other doctors' incompetence and lack of skills, he was fed up with nurses that would rather chat and flirt with a new, handsome medic the clinic hired, than care about patients. He opened the new message that had just arrived, a couple of hard words already forming in his mind, when his breath caught. 

I'm not dead. Dinner? - SH

John blinked a few times, a familiar warm spreading in his chest just before he felt incredible anger, making it's way through it, straight to his brain. He cursed under his breath, typing back quickly. 

Who the hell are you? It's not funny. Don't contact this number. - JW

He clicked 'send' furiously, hailed a cab and got inside, hearing his phone chime again. 

It's me, John. - SH

John stared at the screen, blinking rapidly, his hand clutching the phone with too much force. He put it back into his pocket and told the driver his address. The road took him longer, than he expected. He heard his phone beeping twice and it only made him more furious. Whoever was writing him, he couldn't be Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes died over a year before and the doctor refused to believe that it could be him. Seeing the traffic jam before them, he grabbed his mobile again and read the messages. 

John, it's me. I'm not dead. I'm sorry. - SH

Dinner? Please? - SH

John sighed and typed the answer quickly, gritting his teeth. He would not believe that this was Sherlock. It must have been some kind of a bad joke, someone wanted to hurt him, that's all. End of story.

I don't believe you. Piss off. - JW

The answer came almost immediately, so John opened it. Once again he was left staring at the screen, but now something pleasant was creeping up his insides. Something that seemed almost like relief. He shook his head in disbelief, reading the newly arrived text. 

At the graveyard, you said that you owe me so much. It's not the truth. I owe you much more. Please, meet me. - SH

John was reading the message over and over again, until he reached his destination. He paid the cabby quickly and made his way to the flat, shopping be damned. Sherlock was alive. It was definitely Sherlock, he was alone when he said it. And if the detective was alive then he must have heard it somehow. John got to his flat, shut the door with his foot and stripped off his jacket, before replaying. He texted his new address, on the other side of London, and pushed 'send'. 

It wasn't long when he heard a knock to his door. He raised himself up from his bed, in which he had been lying, fiddling with the mess in his head that the messages had created. He dragged himself to the door and opened it with more force then was necessary. Before him, wrapped tightly in brown leather jacket and red scarf, was Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes, who was officially dead. John stared at him, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and breathing fast. 

The man before him shifted a little, but didn't say anything. John took in the appearance of his former friend and ran his eyes over the tall silhouette. That was, with no doubts, the World's Only Consulting Detective. His face was as pale as ever, his hair short and dyed blond, his lips dry and cracked from the recent shift in the weather. The detective's eyes, however, appeared older. They were more silver than John had remembered them, an underlying hint of pain and exhaustion lingering in those lunar orbs. The doctor was dreaming about those eyes almost every night, they were haunting him in most of his dreams. 

John cleared his throat and moved a little, giving Sherlock space to walk into the flat. The detective remained still, though. He shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the box he was holding in gloved hands. John sighed.

“I'm not going to hit you now, no matter how much you deserve it. Now, get inside, Sherlock” the doctor said patiently, his expression stern. Sherlock looked at him, nodded slightly and walked in slowly. John closed and locked the door behind him and followed the detective inside. Sherlock walked slowly, taking in every detail of the flat. 

So much different from Baker Street. Walls were painted with creamy colors, there was no carpet on the floor, just wood-boards, the furniture was few and far between. Tiny, neatly made bed, old-fashioned table with two chairs, a chest of drawers and a small TV set. They made their way to the kitchen and Sherlock placed the box, he had been gripping with too much force, on the counter top. John moved, so they stood opposite each other and stared at Sherlock intently, willing the detective to speak. The taller man finally opened his mouth.

“I brought Chinese” he stated matter-of-factly, looking at the cardboard box. John nodded and turned around to find some plates and forks in the cupboards. He felt oddly numb. He should be angry, like he had been, when Sherlock had jumped off that bloody rooftop. He should be broken, like when he came back to Baker Street to collect his things. He should be shouting, crying, hitting Sherlock. He should do anything. Instead John just moved around the tiny kitchen, looking for plates. He was numb, grief had crept up and stayed inside his heart, making it ice-cold. He didn't have anymore tears to cry, he didn't have nothing to shout out loud. He was just a shell, a broken vessel – the spirit inside was long since dead.

When he gathered everything that was necessary, he sat at the tiny table that was pushed in the corner of the kitchen. Sherlock joined him, sitting on the other side, taking off his jacket. The silence was stretching uncomfortably, no one wanted to start talking, knowing where it would lead them. Sherlock was staring intently at John, who suddenly found his plate most interesting. 

“John...” Sherlock started and drifted off, not knowing how to say what he wanted, what he needed to tell this man. John's eyes closed briefly and he swallowed, opening them again.   
“Why?” came an almost silent whisper, just a huff of air, but the detective heard it nonetheless.   
“I had to protect you...” Sherlock said in a calm voice, digging his fork into food. He was interrupted by John's quiet and somehow angry voice.  
“I know it. I figured it out... you weren't... you aren't fake. You wouldn't kill yourself because of it...” John cleared his throat, blinking rapidly at the memory of the past year's events. “You had been forced into doing this...” he looked up and saw Sherlock nodding slightly, his eyes focused on John.   
“What did you mean, then?” The dark haired man asked slowly, looking carefully at John's face. He looked terrible – his eyes tired and worn off, his face lost it's natural glow, his hair grayed a little bit more... Sherlock saw the slight tremble of the doctor's lower lip, before he heard him speak.

“Why did you make me watch?” John put his face in both hands and sighed, what came out almost like a sob. Sherlock felt as if something clenched his insides. “When I saw you at that rooftop... When I... When you... Why, Sherlock? You could have done it another way... You could have let me go into that fucking building and jump while I was inside!” John looked up suddenly, his eyes hard, cold, and Sherlock shivered. He had never seen John like this, even when he did something particularly wrong. He had never seen that icy stare from the doctor's eyes. A chill ran up the detective's spine and he instinctively leaned back into his chair, his body flat against the back of it. John shook his head and looked down again, digging his fork into the food before him. He didn't eat anything, he was just stabbing it, absentminded. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

“I never wanted...”

“Bollocks!” John stated firmly and then chuckled, but there was no smile on his face. God, how Sherlock missed his smile, those upturned lip corners. “You did it on purpose. And you are not even sorry, are you?” He looked at the taller man again and Sherlock felt like he could disappear right then. He wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole. He deserved it, he knew. “Are you” John finished and stood up, leaving his plate on the table. He walked to the sink, took a glass that was standing at the counter and filled it with water.

“You are right, I'm not sorry for what I did, John.”  
“Yeah, I thought so. So why are you here?” The doctor asked quietly and took a sip of water.  
“I am here to apologize, John” Sherlock said calmly, preparing himself for the storm he knew would come. And he was right, John spun around fuming with anger, his hand clenching the glass tightly.

“How dare you?!” He shouted. “How dare you! You have no right to come here, to say that you are not sorry and then apologize! You sodding, heartless bastard! I saw you kill yourself!” John took two steps and was standing by the table, yelling directly at Sherlock. “What do you expect from me now? Absolution? You want me to forgive you? The whole fucking year, Sherlock! Whole year before you finally remembered that you had a friend, that maybe he was caring for you!” John put his hands on the table to support himself and leaned forward, his face inches from Sherlock's nose. The detective blinked rapidly, his heart skipping a beat. That was not supposed to go this way, no, no, no... Not good, not like this... 

“John, I...” he tried, but was cut off, when John started to speak, voice lower but it still had this sharp edge, that made Sherlock shiver with dread.   
“You were my friend and you made me watch you jump. You ruined me, Sherlock. For the whole year I was blaming myself for your death! And look at me!” he laughed bitterly. “Look at me, Sherlock... look what I am! I have no life, I have a boring job that I generally hate, I can't eat, I can't sleep... The last time I've slept properly was when I got myself drunk two months ago... I have no friends, no love... Look. At. Me.” He leaned even closer to the sleuth and Sherlock flinched. 

“My people told me that you had a girl...” Sherlock spoke, his voice quiet and tense. He hated it, he hated just how vulnerable he was, when John was being like this.   
“Mary? Well, I don't have now, do I?” John huffed the response and straightened his back a little.   
“What happened to her?” Sherlock asked, daring to look John in the face for the first time, since he had got into the flat this evening. John clenched his jaw.

“She's gone.”  
“That girl...”  
“Mary. Her name was Mary” John stated in an ice-cold voice.   
“Mary” Sherlock made a face like if the name was some sort of rotten fruit that appeared in his mouth, god only knows how. “Was Mar... wait? Was?” Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet John's blue gaze. “Is she...?”  
“She's dead, Sherlock. She died three months ago” The doctor closed his eyes briefly, then he opened them again and looked at Sherlock. “It was just an affair, but...” he drifted off.  
“But it hurt... does it still hurt?” Sherlock almost whispered, his voice softer, gentler. John nodded.  
“Yes, it does. We were thinking about our future... She was driving back from her mother's house, wanted to tell me something herself... There was an accident, she died at the scene” John swallowed. Sherlock nodded softly. He looked closely at John, at his sweet, handsome face... He didn't seem too concerned with Mary's death. Something was out of picture, something was missing. 

“You don't seem very broken...” the words slipped from Sherlock's mouth, before he had a chance to stop them. He cursed silently, looking at John, searching anything on his face... but John had a blank expression, not a single thought was written on it. “I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean it that way...” he felt a slight ping of panic.  
“No, it's okay. You are right... as always” John swallowed and looked out of the window. “I didn't love her, it didn't hurt that much... Well, I mean... yeah, we were friends, I liked her, I was attracted to her... I wanted her to be with me... but I didn't love her. It hurt that she died, it hurt that I was left alone. Again.” He glared at the taller man. “But it hadn't broken my heart, like when you...” John paused and took a shuddering breath, one, lonely tear escaping his eye. 

In a flurry of movement, John found himself pressed against a long and thin body, two lanky arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and a hot breath against his ear. He trembled, he realized just now. He was trembling like a leaf, clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails drew blood from his hands. Sherlock was clinging to him tightly, his breathing quick, shallow. 

“I never wanted to cause you pain, John... Never.”  
“But you did! You were alive, you were at the cemetery, when I was crying over your grave, you bastard! Why didn't you tell me you were alive?” John brought his fist between them and punched Sherlock on the chest. “Why? I was so alone... You died... and I... I couldn't...” Sherlock listened with raising panic, as John started to sob. After a moment he could feel the warm wetness of his doctor's tears that were seeping through his shirt. Sherlock felt like someone kicked him in the guts... He made this strong, brave, proud soldier cry. John should hate him now, he definitely would. Sherlock knew he had hurt him, but he wanted to make up for it. He wanted to get John back, back to cases, back to Baker Street, back to Sherlock. 

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the urge to kiss John. It was so strong that he lowered his head to the doctor's neck, lips ghosting over the warm skin. He had never seen the point in kissing – it was messy, strange and it lacked any sort of elegance. What could be appealing in licking off somebody's sweat or saliva? But right now he wanted to feel John with his body, to press the most sensitive parts of him to his soldier's skin and just feel John... All of his sensitive organs were unavailable, though – fingertips buried in John's jumper, sensitive skin of his abdomen clad in trousers and shirt, feet in shoes, his backside was still behind him, thank you very much, and his member... no, no, no, that would be not good. The only thing that was left in his arsenal, were his lips. So, having no other option, Sherlock lowered them gently and pressed them to this warm and vibrating skin. It was just a simple touch, but the detective could feel his body shivering, his senses overwhelmed by the only man in the world that he cared about. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. John's scent, camomile, his aftershave, hours in clinic and that pure aroma of John himself, of his living, breathing body. It made Sherlock feel safe, it smelled like home.

Barely seconds later, the detective found himself standing at arm-length with John, the doctor gripping his shoulders almost painfully hard, his eyes pointed toward the floor. He was breathing heavily, unsteady, his jaw clenched. Sherlock shifted his gaze to John's neck, that he was happily contemplating just a moment before, and... 

Oh... 

There was a small, pink spot, where Sherlock's lips had been, three indentations marking that sensitive flesh. 

When did that happen? 

The detective pondered. Did he go too far? Surely, he must had, he had bitten John... But when? He didn't remember this, he was too occupied with an armful of a certain army doctor to pay attention to what his teeth were doing. 

“Don't, Sherlock... just don't do this” John whispered and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts.   
“John... I didn't want...”  
“You never do” John interrupted him bitterly. He closed his eyes and his hands left Sherlock's shoulders just to wrap around himself. “I think you should go, Sherlock.”  
“What? But... what do you mean?” Sherlock asked, his eyes going wide. No, no, no... not like this, he wanted John back with him, not miles apart again. He became to know what the word 'lonely' means in the last year, he never wanted to be alone again, not without his only true friend.   
“I mean that you should go. All of this is just another sick game, isn't it?” The doctor shook his head. “I can't do it like this, Sherlock”  
“But John...”  
“But what? You die, you make me see it, and then you magically appear here... over a year later... and you expect me to what? To be happy? To be friends with you again? To live like nothing happened? I'm not you, Sherlock, I can't delete things!” John walked back to the table and leaned on it, his shoulders slumped and arms still tightly around his chest. “God knows I tried... I tried every fucking way to delete you from my heart... but I couldn't.”  
“John, you don't have to do this. I came back for you... I want to settle back in London, I want to clear my name and start working again, but, most of all, I want to make it up for you... everything that I've done. Please, John...”

“Please? It doesn't suit you. Stick to ice, remember?” John glanced at him. Sherlock really looked miserable. He appeared taller with short hair and John suddenly felt overwhelmed. He wanted things to be as they were before, he wanted to come back to Baker Street, to solve crimes and chase villains across London. The problem was that he couldn't. When Sherlock died, he took everything with him, he took John's happiness, his heart and his life. The doctor knew that Sherlock did it to protect him, he knew Sherlock. But what was making it impossible for John to trust Sherlock again, was the way he did what he did. John could have helped him, he could have done something, too. The detective could have done something else, he could have done that in another way, or tell John, or at least leave a note. But a real one, not that spoken one, on st. Bart's rooftop. A real note that would explain why he really did this. 

“John?” Sherlock's voice was soft and concerned. It snapped John out of his thoughts. “Just go...” The taller man pressed his lips tightly together. Why was it so complicated? Damn feelings...

“I don't want to go! I want you back, with me, on Baker Street!”  
“No.”  
“John...” Sherlock took several steps towards him, inching dangerously to the doctor's smaller frame.   
“No.”  
“Please...”  
“No-” John found himself pressed to the table by surprisingly strong, thin body. Hands on his head stopped his movements and a pair of lips sucked vigorously on his own. He moaned unintentionally, more from panic than arousal, and felt a nimble tongue prodding at his mouth. 

Sherlock had been fed up with the fruitless conversation they had. When he had been asked to leave, he found out that his only chance to make it better was to show John just how much he cared. He had never willingly let anyone kiss him on the mouth. It wasn't that Sherlock was afraid of germs or other people's fluids. He just loved his personal space (even if he invaded the space of the other people on daily basis), and he never trusted anyone enough to let them do it. He had built a wall around himself, a great Chinese wall with guards every half a mile, just to protect himself from the outer world, from people. But when John appeared in his life that changed. The little, smart doctor started to smash down bricks in his wall, to rip them off of the surface, to get to the detective inside. And when Sherlock put up a fight and added another bricks, John started digging underneath. And one day he appeared inside Sherlock's protective bubble and the detective knew that it would change everything. Then Moriarty came into play and Sherlock had to die. John was left alone inside Sherlock's bubble, surrounded by the thick wall, built during years of suffering. And he was alone there. 

Sherlock finally understood, that he had to do something to show John just how important he is. So Sherlock moved to him quickly and grabbed his head, lifting it a little, pinning John with his hips to the table behind him. 

And then he kissed John. 

He kissed John and he kept doing that, until he felt John's hands pushing him, Johns head turning away, trying to escape his grasp. They broke apart and Sherlock found himself thrown to the nearest wall, John standing three steps away, glaring at him, his expression stern. Sherlock straightened and tried to speak, but fell silent when John yelled.

“Get out! Get the fuck out of here!” He threw his arms in the air and made a step forward to the detective. Sherlock looked at him, startled, and tried to rerun the last few moments in his memory. What have he done wrong? But he couldn't formulate his thoughts, for the next thing he knew, was John gripping him hard by his arms and yanking him toward the door. He opened it and shoved the detective outside, yelling something indistinguishable. When Sherlock turned around to finally say something, the door had been shut before his nose, a loud bang echoing in the staircase.


	3. Saints

John sat on the bed feeling strange. All the thoughts running around his head, all emotions and feelings, everything that was going on inside his mind and heart... The doctor sighed. For the whole year he wished for the detective to come back and when he finally did, John threw him out of his flat and life. 

John wasn't a bad man. His heart grew colder over that past year, for he could no longer stand the grief. It wasn't only Sherlock's fault and John knew it. It all started back in Afghanistan. When he worked as a battle surgeon, when his mission was to help people, he felt good. He knew that when he healed them, when he put the pieces of their bodies together, he could save them. It was what was his vocation, what was his life. To save the others, to help them, to heal them. 

And one night it had all gone to hell. There was a hot spot near their localization, bombs flying down were so loud that John could see waves caused by vibrations rumpling the surface of his tea. He drank it slowly, trying to prepare his mind for what was to come. He knew that they would soon have a lot of work, he had seen scenes like that before. But never had it been so close to their base, with no other camp in radius of twenty miles, which meant that most of the injured would be transported here. John put the mug down and went to scrub himself clean. He knew that injured people were inevitable that day, he wanted to be ready when the time would come. 

And when it finally came, captain Watson found himself in the middle of a nightmare. More than 50 injured and, among them, over 20 severely. John got to work, patching them up as fast as he could. Most of his work at that point was only taming the blood-flow and keeping them alive just to get them on the operating table later. 

After eight hours of sewing bodies and cutting off the remainings of limbs, Watson sat down in his tent, looking at his bloodied hands and silently, almost shyly wished that it had been all for that day. He couldn't take any more, not at that time anyway. Too much blood, too much pain. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake! And sometimes he could do nothing but watch people die. A young corporal died on his hands that day. His leg was in shreds, torn by some explosives. He had been well aware of the fact that he was dying. He looked at John with big, clear eyes and smiled. Smiled! 

Thank you, st. John, but you should go now. They need you, he said, looking in the general direction of other patients. 

I wasn't the first time, when John wanted to cry. It was the first time, when he actually cried. Two unguarded tears escaped his eyes and ran down his cheeks. The young man died within two minutes with a huge smile on his lips and John holding his hand. There was no way to stop the blood flow from the leg and, atop of all this, he had a massive internal bleeding, too. John straightened and walked to the next bed, taking another life in his hands. This time being successful. 

St. John. That was his nickname in the army. He had no idea why he got it, nor he thought that it suited him. He wasn't a saint... and yet, more and more people through the years spent in the army became to call him like that. But his army days were over and so was his nickname. For his part, John thought that he had lived through enough of hell in the army to be saint. He wasn't an angel, unless it was a fallen one. He had seen enough tears, pain and grief in his life. He felt enough pain and grief in his life. 

When Sherlock jumped off that damned building, he was left in pieces. John was continuously replaying this day in his mind, over and over again. He often wondered if he had somehow been responsible for what happened. Yes, ex-army doctor, captain John Watson was feeling guilty. Maybe if he hadn't called Sherlock 'machine', maybe if he had his eyes opened and focused in right direction, maybe if... maybe... 

John sighed and laid down on bed. He didn't fully understand that Sherlock was alive, not yet. And what happened in his flat, in his own flat, where he wanted to forget about his previous life, only made him worse. Sherlock jumped, died, resurrected. And then he came back to John. The doctor couldn't grasp everything of it yet. As he flopped down onto his bed, he kept thinking about his former friend. Or maybe not former.... maybe still a friend? He sighed again, his eyes fluttered shut. He would deal with his thoughts the next day. In the morning. Right now he needed sleep.


	4. Pinned

When John woke up the next day, he didn't feel any better. In fact, he felt even worse. His head was aching, his eyes burned. He was crying for almost the whole night, before the tiredness finally got him. He had been running the events of the previous evening over and over in his head. Sherlock was alive, his mad flatmate, his greatest friend, his rock, his life... John couldn't come with an appropriate label to mark his feelings toward Sherlock. He knew that he needed that lunatic, he needed him like the air he was breathing. When the detective jumped from that goddamned rooftop, John felt as if his life ended, as if he died along with Sherlock. 

And yet, he wasn't sure if what he felt could have been called love. It was an affection, it was strong, throughout... But the doctor wasn't sure, if it had been love. He was ready to kill for Sherlock, to die for Sherlock, true. But was it love? Maybe it was just a strong friendship? 

He crawled out of his bed and went to the bathroom. Seeing his face in the mirror only added to his bad mood, seeing himself with puffy, red eyes and dark circles underneath them wasn't a pleasant sight. He did what he needed to do and went out, heading to the tiny kitchen to make some tea. On his way there he passed next to his front door and paused there for a moment. He shouldn't have thrown Sherlock out like he did. It was by all means wrong. The detective was probably hurt emotionally and he could do anything right now. John sighed loudly, this wasn't anything new. Sherlock would go for cigarets or drugs... 

“For fuck's sake!” He groaned loudly at the door. He was mad at Sherlock but he never wanted this lunatic to hurt himself and this was rather inevitable this time. 

“John...” a sigh, almost a whisper came from the other side of his door. The doctor had heard a sigh like this before... One night, when Sherlock had been in a pretty bad fight with some criminals, when John had been stitching him afterward... Sherlock had been so vulnerable in that moment, so dependent... 

John blinked a few times, swallowed loudly, feeling his chest constricting, and opened the door. There, slumped on the floor, curled in a tight ball, was Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes, whom John had kicked out the previous day. 

“Sherlock...” John didn't know what to say. He had been apparently sitting on that damn staircase for the whole night. “Sherlock, why are you sitting here?” Well, that wasn't one of his most brilliant questions, but John couldn't think about anything better. He was quietly amazed that the detective managed to site here for... how many hours was it? Six? Seven?   
“You know why...” came the quiet replay. The man on the floor looked like if he was trying to curl in on himself even more. John took a step closer and kneeled in front of him. Sherlock was stubbornly avoiding looking at the shorter man.   
“Sherlock, look at me.”  
“John...” the detective sighed and closed his eyes. John placed one hand on Sherlock's arm and the other man's head snapped up, eyes looking at John with wild stare.   
“Come inside... please” the doctor said softly, his voice washed over Sherlock's brain like a tidal wave. “Come on. Stand up and come inside.”

“I...” Holmes gritted his teeth and cleared his throat. “I can't...” He closed his eyes again.   
“What?” John frowned.   
“I can't... I can't stand up. It... my leg... it hurts” Sherlock's eyes drifted shut and he leaned a little against the wall behind his back. The move made his leg muscles stretch a little and he hissed in pain.  
“What happened?” John demanded. He needed to know what happened in order to help him. He wanted to help him... no, he needed to help him. Somehow, the doctor and friend inside him were still alive, still caring. He shook his head as those thoughts arrived inside his skull. He was pathetic with all his caring. One day he would just get to pay for it. “Here, take my hand” he stretched his left hand, offering it to the dark haired mass of limbs. Sherlock looked up at his palm and cautiously took it. Keeping his leg as stiff and immobile as possible, he let himself be dragged up from the cold floor and into the warm embrace of John. 

Watson had a hard time coping. Sherlock let out a moan through his greeted teeth as John pulled him up. He hugged the detective tightly, preventing him from collapsing down. He looked on the floor where Sherlock had been sitting. There, in the place where his right leg had been resting a few moments ago, a smudged red spot was visible. John shifted the detective's weight in his arms and all but dragged him into the flat, closing the door with his foot. He placed Sherlock on his bed, pushing his chest down to make him lay flat. The movement caused another moan from his friend, his body taut. 

“May I?” John gestured in the general direction of Holmes' legs and the detective nodded weakly. John kneeled on the bed beside him and took a better look at Sherlock's right leg. There, on the lower part of his hips and upper part of his thigh, a slightly darker stain could be seen. John frowned, no matter how deep or shallow the wound had been, it was serious just because of it's length. Watson's hands wandered to the brunette's belt and he quickly undid it. Before he unbuttoned the trousers and lowered the zipper, the doctor had looked briefly at Sherlock. His eyes were closed, his breathing irregular and his jaw clenched. John wanted to reassure him somehow, but he really couldn't find words with all his thoughts, running around in his head. He unfastened the trousers and slid them down and off Sherlock's body. He looked up and gasped, quickly switching to the 'doctor mode'. 

Sherlock was laying on his sheets and the color of his skin was so pale that he had difficulties when he tried to make out his body contour. He shifted his gaze to the place where the injury was clearly visible, running his fingers softly over the stained fabric of his friend's underwear. John cursed in his mind, closing eyes for just a brief moment. Then he inhaled deeply and moved his hand to the waistband of Sherlock's pants. The detective didn't even flinch. He was still laying in the same position, he was panting and almost every muscle in his body was pulled tight. John grabbed his underwear and, as slowly and carefully as he could, removed it. 

The taller man let out a chocked sob as the blood-stained fabric of his underwear was being torn from the wound. It hurt... god, why did it hurt so much? He looked at John, who's eyes appeared genuinely pained. 

“What happened?” The doctor asked again, fishing under his bed and bringing out his medical bag. He walked over to his tiny bathroom with Sherlock's trousers and boxers in his hands, put them into the sink and swamped them with water and washing powder. Then he washed his hands and scrubbed them carefully, paying special attention to his shortly trimmed fingernails. When he returned, Sherlock was still laying in the same position, his breathing shallow. A streak of red blood flowed from his leg. John sighed and sat on the bed next to Sherlock. He took the duvet from under the taller man's legs and covered the left side of his body. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise at John actions.

“Sherlock, while I have to take care of your leg I can see that you are in a bad condition and I don't want to worsen it. The wound is clearly infected, you'll probably have a fever in a few hours, you are malnourished and I don't want you to get hypothermia” he stated calmly, his voice soft. Sherlock nodded and a sigh escaped his lips. 

“Thank you” he whispered and his right hand moved to rest on the duvet. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised when, placing his bony hand over his pubic bone, he felt the soft fabric of the duvet under his fingers. He looked down and smiled – his good old friend always paid attention to such things. When he was placing the covers over the detective he pulled them over his left leg, his crotch, giving him this small bit of privacy. The soft and thick material covered nearly the whole expanse of his chest, keeping him warm and comfortable.   
“Don't... don't thank me for this, Sherlock. There's nothing to thank for” John stroked the backs of his slender fingers that were gripping the covers loosely. Sherlock swallowed, his throat dry. He had suddenly felt warmer, something pleasant ran through his body making him smile weakly. John was still there, he hadn't thrown him away, he was helping him... 

John still cared. 

“Well, can you tell me what happened?” John's quiet voice shook him out of his thoughts. He started to gently clean the wound from dried blood, paying attention not to touch the wound edges in fear of causing his friend more pain. When he finished this overall cleaning the shape of the wound became clear. It was a deep and long cut, starting at his hipbone and going down in almost a straight line. It ended in the one third of his thigh, and this must have been where the cut was the deepest. 

“I got into fight with one of the assassins...”  
“Assassins?” John's eyes looked briefly at Sherlock's face, before he continued to clear the wound carefully. With every second passing by he could make out more and more details and soon he saw the remainings of stitches.   
“Yes. When I jumped...” the detective looked at John, but decided to continue. “When I jumped, I did it to protect you... Moriarty told me that there were three henchmen waiting to kill my friends if I didn't jump...”  
“Friends?”  
“You, John... And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade... but it was you, the threat to your life that made me jump. I had no other choice. I did it and I went to find them and kill them...” he trailed off, clearly remembering something. John could tell from the frown and slightly hunted look in his eyes that it wasn't anything nice. “When I finally had them killed I could come back to you... for you... oh!” Sherlock moaned loudly, his leg muscles spasming. John apologized quickly for the accidental brush of the gauze over the torn flesh. He quickly finished the cleaning and proceeded to remove old stitches from the wound. 

“How many?” The doctor asked, preparing the syringe with lidocaine. He wanted to desensitize the area before going any further.   
“Too many. The last one, Sebastian Moran... he was hard... This wound is his memento. I thought that it would be eas...” Sherlock trailed off, his eyes going wide. John looked at him, at his fearful eyes and lips parted in a silent gasp.   
“Sherlock?” The good doctor tried, but the detective was still as a stone, his big, moonlit eyes staring at John's right palm, his own hands clenching sheets tightly. “Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, not daring to move. Sherlock had the same feral look when they had been in the pool, when he had thought that John was the one playing with him.

“John...” Sherlock whispered, his body shivering slightly.  
“Sherlock? Hey, hey... look at me. Please, look at me...” John let go of the syringe and grasped Sherlock's wrists, squeezing tightly. The detective's eyes snapped up and met the doctor's steady, blue gaze. “What's wrong?”   
“John...”   
“Tell me. I won't judge you, you know that... What is it, Sherlock?”

“I... when I tried to eliminate the second henchman... Something went wrong. He was waiting for me, he surprised me...” Sherlock swallowed, John waited patiently for him to continue, his hands still gently holding the taller man's wrists. “He... he tied me and tried to get some information from me... He used some kind of drug. I have no idea what it was, but...” the detective trailed off and looked at John, wishing him to somehow finish the story for him.  
“Did he inject the drug?” John felt hot red rage boiling in him. Not him, not Sherlock... John knew about his junky past, about drugs, cocaine, heroine... It wasn't anything new. But this... injecting Sherlock with some kind of experimental drug to get information out of him... John was glad that Sherlock killed him, otherwise John would be on his war path now. 

Sherlock just nodded, his gaze jumping between John's eyes and the syringe laying on top of the covers. He was terrified, he, Sherlock Holmes, was scared to death.   
“Sherlock, I have to desensitize your leg before I clean the wound itself, not only the skin around. And I have to stitch it... I don't want to cause you any more pain” John spoke softly. Sherlock swallowed, his eyes still opened wide, breathing quicker than normal.   
“John... do it without it. Please...”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Please...” The detective moaned and snatched his hands away from John. The doctor sighed, taking in the utterly miserable sight of his friend.

“Sherlock... Did I ever betray you?” The taller man shook his head 'no'. John continued. “That's right. Now, I know that you are frightened, but you have to trust me with this” John clenched his jaw. Sherlock's haunted eyes, his beautiful, plush lip caught between his front teeth, hard enough to break the skin, his amazing, other-earthly body, now drenched in cold sweat, pale and trembling... God, it was harder than it looked... “Sherlock, tell me what were the symptoms.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“The symptoms... what effect the drug had on your body?” At this Sherlock shivered visibly, his hands moving down to fist in duvet.  
“I... I was losing control over my mind, John” he started to whisper, voice gravy, serious, but somehow hollow. “With every injection my mind would race faster, my imagination slipping out of my grasp... I've seen people crying, in pain... dying...” Sherlock fell silent for a minute. 

I have seen you in my mind. You were crying, you were dying... And there was nothing I could do... Oh John, my good, caring, precious, wonderful John...

The doctor was silent as well, waiting for the detective to continue. And Sherlock did, struggling for words. “There was so much blood... And I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, to stop the images that were appearing” the brunette looked at John, his eyes glossy, slightly red.  
“What about the physical aspect?” John asked quietly. He wanted to embrace Sherlock so badly right now... just to hold him, to make sure that he is safe, that he feels safe. Be with him, protect him from everything that was waiting for them in this big, bad world... John Watson wasn't a fool, he knew well that if something shook Sherlock that badly, it must have been serious. The detective claimed that he was a sociopath, but John knew that it wasn't the truth. He didn't know what to do with emotions, but he was capable of having them, he could feel.

“Injections themselves weren't painful, but what was happening next...” Sherlock started to shake violently, his eyes shut, jaw clenched. John couldn't take it anymore, he climbed carefully on the detective's left side and circled his arms around the trembling body. Sherlock stiffened at first and John's heart missed a bit, then both of them relaxed, the taller man sneaking his hands around his soldier's waist, palms fisting in the jumper. He started to sob uncontrollably and John felt his own eyes wetting. He clung to the detective, as if he wanted to melt their bodies together and become one. Maybe if he could do this, he would be able to help Sherlock's mind in fighting his demons... 

Watson had no idea how long they were half-sitting like this, but finally he felt Sherlock's deep baritone vibrating in his chest. He leaned back a little, still keeping the safe embrace of his arms around his dear friend. The movement gave him some space between their bodies, what in turn earned a startled look from the detective.

“Shh... I'm not going anywhere” he let his right hand run gently over the expanse of Sherlock's back, caressing his skin softly through the thin shirt that was still on the taller man's body. Sherlock sighed and relaxed a little, eyes fluttering closed. 

Oh, it was good... it felt so wonderful, to have John... his John, his soldier, his doctor touching him, keeping him safe...

Sherlock wanted to crawl inside his doctor's body and never come out. He wanted to be inside John, he wanted to breath the same air, to see with his eyes... He wanted to share his own blood with his dear John. If he only could...   
“Hey, it's okay... Shh...” the good doctor hushed him gently, his hand wandering slowly to Sherlock's cheek. The featherlight touch of knuckles over the pale cheekbone set his nerves on fire. The detective, self-announced sociopath, man who doesn't do feelings, found himself crying because of emotions. His throat was tight, his eyes stinging and skin under John's hand shiny with wetness. “Sherlock... it's okay, you're alright... shh...”   
“S-sorry... I... I didn't w-want to... I'm s-sorry...” the brunette hiccuped, a long, shuddering sob escaping his lips.  
“It's okay, don't apologize... you're going to be fine. Shh... I've got you...” John didn't know what to do. He had never seen Sherlock cry... it tugged at his heart. His anger was smaller with every passing second, with every sob that escaped his friend. 

Finally, Sherlock started speaking, his voice quiet, barely above whisper.  
“When he tied me down, I thought... I thought that it was the end, that I would never see you again...” John felt a violent shudder running through his friend, his breathing stuttered for a moment. “He must have knocked me down, for I woke up already tied... I couldn't even move my legs... Well, in retrospection it had probably been a good idea to tie them down, otherwise I would definitely had broken them when I started trashing after...” Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat, his hands, that were loosely circling John's waist now fisting in his jumper, again. “After he injected me with the drug, he left... He said that he'll come back to ask me a few questions about Moriarty and the cause of his death... When the door closed I began feeling strange. My head started to spin, my neck went stiff... And some images appeared in my mind...” he fell silent.


	5. Walk on

John standing next to him at a crime scene, a single shot, John laying on the sidewalk, bleeding heavily.... John in their home, drinking tea, laughing with Sherlock... a knife... blood, so much blood... It was everywhere, on Sherlock's shoes, on his trousers, on his coat... His hands were red, so red... Why did he handle a knife? John looked at him, his eyes pained, his hands clinging tightly to his chest, a stream of blood running down, over his abdomen, down south, over his legs, pooling around him... 'Why, Sherlock?' And he looked at his own hands, one still clutching the knife, the other... it's a heart, John's heart, still warm, still beating... 'You did this, Sherlock... why? Sherlock!” Sherlock drops the heart and tries to leave... he is panicked, he is frightened... but something grasps his leg... 'Sherlock...' He looks down – it's John, his bloodied hand clawing at Sherlock's foot, at his ankle. 'Sherlock!'

“Sherlock!” John was looking at him with teary eyes. The detective blinked rapidly, his own eyes appeared to be wet, and... oh, his cheek was stinging...   
“Sorry, I had to bring you back somehow... You're fully here?”  
“John...” the taller man whispered and John hushed him gently.   
“It's okay, I'm here...” the doctor cradled his fingers through his friend's messy curls and sighed. “You were in the middle of description of those images when you had a flashback...”  
“John... I'm so...”  
“Shut up. No need to be sorry...”  
“Er... Okay...” Sherlock blinked several times, then he continued. 

“When this hallucinating part was over, other effects appeared...” the detective closed his eyes briefly. “It hurt... My head, my body... my chest, legs... hands...” he started to tremble, so John hugged him more tightly, if it was even possible. “I was on fire, John... It was horrible... like if someone was burning me alive...” the detective's breathing quickened and John silently hoped that he wouldn't hyperventilate. “It went for hours... when one dose wore off, he gave me another... it was worse, if it had even been possible...”  
“What did he want to get out of you?” Practical questions. He had to focus on practical things not to let his mind wander over what had Sherlock gone through... He unattached himself from the detective carefully, all the time looking gently at him and holding his hand for the most of time.  
“He wanted to know, why Moriarty killed himself... John, where are you going?”  
“I still have to restitch your wound, remember?” At this, Sherlock cringed.   
“Can't you just leave this?” He asked, his tone childish, but John knew that it was only an act. Sherlock tried to mask his fear with pouting. And it was fine... For John, it was all fine.  
“I can't and you know this. Listen to me, I'm going to desensitize your leg, but...” John held up a hand to stop the taller man from talking, “but I don't want you to get scared. So, I'm going to use it on me first and then on you, deal?” He asked, his tone soft. Sherlock blinked, staring at him in bewilderment. “Deal?” John repeated and Sherlock just nodded, watching him cautiously. 

John fished into his medical bag and took out new needle. Then he took previously prepared syringe, took off the protecting piece of plastic and, gritting his teeth, stabbed the needle into his thigh, through the layer of his trousers. He pushed the plunger a friction and took the needle out. He looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were wide and jaws set tight. 

“Sherlock, look at me” he said, his voice soft but commanding. The detective's eyes locked with his own and he smiled gently at the brunette. “It doesn't hurt, I still see you and you are definitely alive...” he smiled to himself at how stupid it sounded, but it seemingly was everything that Sherlock needed. He moved closer to John, presenting him his torn thigh. John quickly changed the needle in the syringe. He knew that it wasn't really hygienic to share the same syringe, even if the needle was new, but as far as he was concerned, it was the only way to get to the detective. Besides... God knows that Sherlock had seen worse.

John moved his hand to Sherlock's right one that was fisting the sheet tightly and squeezed lightly.  
“Talk to me” he said, voice quiet, his throat seemed tightened. He slowly brought the syringe to the detective's leg and pushed the needle into the reddened and inflamed skin. Sherlock moaned and jerked, his eyes never leaving John's face.  
“What about?”  
“Anything. Everything...” the doctor looked at one of the older scars, scars that weren't there a year before. “Tell me about it” he said, pointing at a long, slightly pink scar, almost parallel to the wound he was taking care of. Sherlock swallowed and, after a long moment answered, his eyes following his doctor's every move.   
“One of the henchmen... well, he was quick.” John nodded, finishing with lidocaine, he fished out a new gauze and begun cleaning the infected parts of flesh, his hands steady and gentle. Sherlock watched with amazement. Why had he ever called this man stupid? Every other doctor that was helping him during his not-very-safe life had been rough and unpleasant. They were acting as if the detective hurt himself deliberately and went to them just to take their precious time, not to seek help.   
“Somebody stitched it up, but I can see that the stitches themselves were thick... Didn't Mycroft have someone competent to do this?” John raised his eyes briefly at Sherlock who shook his head.

“It wasn't Mycroft...”  
“What?”   
“It wasn't Mycroft... I couldn't go to him. If I had gone to him for help he would have probably killed me. Or maybe he would have me placed in some nice custody...” he swallowed, eyes returning to John's hands, now preparing needle and stitches.  
“Why?”  
“Don't you see, John?” The detective huffed impatiently, what reminded John of his older self, when he was complaining about all the stupidity around him. God, how he missed that Sherlock...  
“Don't I see what?”  
“It was all Mycroft's doing!” Sherlock stated, his voice louder than necessary. 

John froze in the middle of the movement, his gentle hands about to tie a knot on the first stitch. “Oh, don't look at me like that, John! It was Mycroft! I was a major inconvenience to his job, so the authorities forced him to get rid of me. Moriarty either knew about it or foresaw it, but he was aware of Mycroft's moves. So he tried to play it how he could, knowing that Mycroft would want to kill him, too.”  
“Wait, wait, hang on... what do you say? That Mycroft tried to kill you?”  
“He had to. He was forced to...” Sherlock trailed off and John went back to work on the stitches.   
“So, if you didn't go to Mycroft, who did you go to?”  
“John, don't...” At this the doctor looked sharply at Sherlock. His eyes closed and breathing fast and shallow.   
“Sherlock. You owe me an explanation. You know it.”  
“Molly...” Sherlock whispered, his voice so low that John thought that he misheard at first.   
“Molly?” The brunette nodded. “Molly Hooper?”   
“Yes.”  
“So you came to Molly, instead of me?” John huffed, his fingers clenched briefly. He ties the fifth stitch a little harsher than he intended to. “Who else?”   
“The homeless network.”  
“Of course” he mentally cursed. He knew that Sherlock's network would probably help him in everything, but Molly? That stung. 

“Who...”

“John. Don't.” The detective interrupted him. He shifted a little, scooping lower, giving John more space to work.   
“Sherlock, I asked. I don't care now, it can't be worse than...” the doctor had to bite his tongue. He didn't mean it in that way. Molly wasn't some disaster. It just hurt him so much that his friend wouldn't come to him for help and instead turn to Molly. 

“Than what?” Sherlock spat at him. “John I couldn't go to you, you would have been killed. There was a treat to your life. It was too much for me. I wouldn't risk you. Not you...” Sherlock trailed off, clenching his jaw tightly, clearly uncomfortable.   
“Who. Else.” John finished the last of the ten stitches on his leg. He rose and looked for a clean gauze to secure the wound. Sherlock looked at him briefly, considering his options. Then he hesitatingly answered.   
“Irene Adler.”

The doctor stopped short, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments, just a second, maybe half, but it told the detective everything he needed to know. He had genuinely hurt John. He started it with faking his death, then he worsened it with his come back. Now he threw at John that he trusted Molly more than he trusted his only true friend. Information about The Woman was the final straw that broke John to pieces.   
“Ah” was everything he said for a long while, finishing his work on Sherlock's leg and covering his whole body with the duvet. He then stood up and walked to the door, glancing at Sherlock over his shoulder. 

“You can stay here as long as you want...”  
“John?”  
“...I'm not going to come back here within a week. I'll stay out of London...”  
“John, please...”  
“There is paracetamol and aspirin in the kitchen, there's some food in the fridge as well... I don't want to see you again... and I don't want you to contact me” the ex-soldier blinked and swallowed hard before continuing. “I'm happy that you're alive. Thanks for... for telling me, Sherlock.”  
“John, don't...”  
“Goodbye” and he walked out of the flat, grabbing his phone and jacket on his way out. The detective looked at the closed door and blinked furiously. Why did john left him? Sure he felt hurt but he couldn't be that hurt, could he? 

Sherlock fisted his hands clenching the duvet tightly. He had spoiled everything again. He had to go after John, beg him for forgiveness... He jolted his body upwards and immediately fell back again, groaning in pain. His leg started to hurt and he grabbed it with both hands, his body doubling up in pain. He was smart and he acted as the biggest idiot on the face of the Earth. He was quick-witted and he couldn't see what had been right under his nose. He was the master of his body and he couldn't even move from his miserable position in John's bed... He pushed his face into the pillow and sobbed from pain, though if it was the physical or the mental one, he didn't know. He drifted asleep, surrounded by John's warm scent lingering on the sheets. When he dreamed, he dreamed of home, he dreamed of Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it ends for now. There will surely be part two, but as I said, it is yet to be written. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


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